


Light Ascending

by Phoenixflames12



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade Day, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7103410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amid the quiet of the night before Lamarque's funeral, Enjolras and Combeferre talk by the back window of the Corinthe</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light Ascending

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sublime Madness of the Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/203854) by KChann88. 



> My contribution to Barricade Day 2016 and a small, early birthday gift to KCrabb88, who has been such a wonderful friend in various fandoms over the last few years.
> 
> Much love and enjoy x
> 
> (Oneshot)

Light Ascending

A faint breeze tugs at his hair as he stands at the widow of the Corinthe’s back room. The sun is already sinking; blinding light bleeding out across the darkening Paris skyline.

 

The hush that surrounds him seems all encompassing, the familiar evening sounds of Paris slowly winding down to sleep filling his lungs with a grateful exhale of smoke and light and noise.

 

The dying light seems to drip down around his body, catching at his fingertips resting lightly on the window ledge; his eyes drifting over the city that after so many years, he is finally able to call home.

 

And with the dying light comes peace. The first sense of peace that his brain that has been meticulously planning and unpicking and reworking strategies has felt for so long as his palms press down against the cold, worn wood of the frame.

 

He is glad that he made it up here.

 

Glad that he is up here alone; alone with his thoughts and able to soak in the dying light of the sunset because who knows when he will see it again; if he will see it again?

 

The future is so uncertain, the very act of an uprising is so dependent on the people, on the students, that it barely bears thinking about and yet he cannot help but think.

 

Cannot help but worry that at the vital moment, the people whom he is counting so much on will fail him, will not rise, will allow his beautiful, beloved Patria to remain broken and beaten within the ashes of the fires of the Bourgeious and he cannot let that happen.

 

‘Enjolras?’

 

He feels Combeferre’s presence before he sees him, feels the comfortingly knurled hand folding itself over his own; tight flingers clasping, squeezing what should be reassurance.

 

He feels the warm, steady pressure of his first lieutenant at his back and that alone is enough to still some of his fluttering heart.

 

‘Is everything alright?’ Strong arms expertly pull him round as dark eyes scan his face, boring into his own ice blue shadowed by bruises courtesy of his inability to sleep.

 

An imperceptible muscle tightens in Combeferre’s jaw, the skin between his nose creasing slightly, his voice still soft with unquestioned, unspoken affection.

 

‘I…’ The words cannot come out the way that he thought they would. They are tangled with so much emotion, emotion that he knows his friends all share and he wishes that they would unravel themselves. Wishes it because he he has never had trouble articulating himself, least not to Combeferre and now, just before it mattered most, he finds that his voice is failing him.

 

He breathes in, watching these unspoken emotions dance across his vision for a moment, wishing that one of them would make itself clear as a single form or else meld and twist into making something clearly new.

 

Ever patient Combeferre waits.

 

‘I wish… I wish I could say… How much I care about you. _All_ of you.’ He swallows, eyes flickering up to the guide, whose own are filled with a sense of silent love that he is not sure he truly deserves.

 

‘And… This work that we do tomorrow, I cannot tell if we will win or lose and the air is so full of contradictions. There is hope at Fauborg St-Antoine and yet just this morning on my way to class, I heard a pamphleteer announce to anyone who was listening that the National Guard are sure to crush any form of dissention at the funeral.’

He takes a breath and looks up, surprised to see a quirk of a smile cracking at Combeferre’s lips, but when he speaks, his words are full and genuine.

 

‘It was threatening rain this morning Enjolras. The people have been without bread, without hope for too long now. Who knows what they will believe?’

 

 _Yes,_ Enjolras thinks. _The people have been without bread and now with General Lamarque gone to the world of the dead, they are without hope unless someone acts. Unless we act._

 

From the window, all he can hear are whispers rising like smoke from the stifled streets; whispers of thoughts, of plans that he cannot string together. Plans that could, given time, flourish into the fires of revolution, of hope, of change and yet time is something that the people of Paris do not have on their side.

 

They must act now if they are to act at all.

 

They must act because if they do not, then how are they going to fulfil their dreams of leaving the next century a place of peace? A place of happiness?

 

They must act and act with violent derision, because if they do not then the hole that has been gnawing away so forcefully at his beloved Patria will continue to grow and be filled with such pain and despair that he cannot abide to even think about it.

 

‘We may not live to see this world we speak of,’ he says finally; wrenching his thoughts away from the incoming doom and back to Combeferre.

 

The guide nods, his palms still pressed in the pits of Enjolras’s shoulders.

 

 _I know._ The dark eyes seem to say. _I know and you know and the others know, but do the people? Will the people whom we call? Will they be willing to risk their lives for it? For us?_

‘We will share your fate. Whatever it may be. As Joly says, we are sworn to go through fire. You must believe that _Mon Ami.’_ His hands have left Enjolras’s shoulders and he is now leaning with him on the windowsill; gazing out across a steadily darkening sky studded with stars.

 

‘I know,’ Enjolras manages after a moment’s pause, the words feeling thick in his throat. ‘I know that but… I do not want to see you fall…Any of you.’ His voice chokes into silence again and he feels a sudden, salty wetness prick against his eyes; unable, unwilling to let the tears fall.

 

Combeferre moves closer, his familiar warmth and bony bulk pressing up against the windowsill.

 

‘I do not wish for the world to miss the gifts you have to offer, but… Perhaps you were made for war, my friend.’ He studies Enjolras as he speaks; eyes over bright behind the wire framed spectacles, a hand reaching up to grasp the chief’s shoulder.

 

Their skin seems to melt into each other and Enjolras cannot help but think that even now, even when the end is so close, that there will always be times when he is needed to be completed and corrected by his oldest friend.

 

‘I know that I do not seek martyrdom. None of us do, not even Bahorel; but this war is an attempt to break a product that we cannot allow to manifest.’ He knows now that he is no St. Sebastian, dying needlessly for his faith, knows now that whatever happens come dawn will have repercussions, whether he lives to see them or not.

 

Combeferre nods; understanding, warmth and desperate love flooding through him as he watches Enjolras’s emotion find its feet through his speech.

 

‘We will change things with the events that happen tomorrow. We have a chance to do so much good, even if we do not live to see it.’

 

Combeferre nods, but says nothing because there is nothing left to say.

 

Instead, they stand watching the sun slowly sink into a final curtsey behind the Notre Dame Cathedral and somewhere, in the not-yet discovered distance, can almost hear the voices of victory ring out over the slumbering city.

 

* * *

 

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review!
> 
> Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
> 
> Much love and enjoy! x


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